THE PRISON CAMP IN ANATOLIA 55
sky from the window. I could see one little patch
between the house-tops. Sometimes far up in its blue
a kite wheeled and cried, or a swallow raced across it,
or a pigeon shot home with a swoop. Sometimes a
great free bird would float lazily across it. At night it
became alive with stars. I swore that in my life I would
never again keep any wild animal in captivity. The
sun was but the passing of shadow and light on walls
opposite. I never walked in it. By straining hard out
against the bars I could see up the road a skimpy bit
of tree that showed half its branches to me. It budded
and became green. It put out rich leaves. It turned
yellow and once more became bare arms swaying in the
driving snow. And still the eternal time stood still,
just swinging in and out from day into night and back
again. I became too tired to sit or lie down, and then
too tired to sleep. I thought of great deep gulps of
strong air after some hard game ; of the smell of free
running water in the spring and the light green of young
willows on the Cher at Oxford, of the pulse of a horse
moving under me, of the kick of life and freedom, and
then of long, deep, dreamless sleep held soft and warm
in the arms of unconsciousness. This was the Hell
of the Living Dead. I fancied that perhaps we were
dead and unknowingly we were in Hell. I told Robin
Paul, who was in the next room. He pondered awhile.
" No," he said, " it cannot be Hell, for I never did any-
thing bad enough for this/'
Our persistency, in refusing our parole, had hardened
to sullen obstinacy, when suddenly the Turks grew
tired and we returned to the camp as before.